Chapter Seven #2
“They claim he was a good man with no vices,” Janey had said with blatant disbelief. “Always faithful to his wife. Although they slept in different rooms.”
“Many couples do, if they have the space,” Constance had said mildly. “Especially as they grow older. Did you get the impression they had quarreled?”
“No,” Janey said doubtfully. She scowled, clearly struggling for the right words. “I had the impression they weren’t…close.”
“As a family?” Solomon asked.
She shook her head. “They both seem to have been devoted to the children—spoiled them, even. Both were thrilled by the engagement. The wedding gown and the full trousseau are already ordered from the most expensive dressmaker in town. The parents were happy, just not…with each other. They rarely did anything together, except for show.”
“Was she unfaithful?” Constance asked.
“No such whisper from the servants,” Janey said. “But then, there probably wouldn’t be, would there? They’re good, loyal people.”
“Well done,” Constance had told her. “Perhaps you should try neighboring servants tomorrow? Come into the office first, though. I want you to show Hat what to do in the office…”
Janey had certainly provided a better impression of the family’s reality, but Constance looked forward to whatever they could learn from Cordell, who was almost inside it.
The man had watched her all evening. She was not blind to his admiration.
After all, inspiring such attraction had become second nature to her.
He might have come from mere curiosity, but he was not here for the girls.
On the other hand, would he know from her marriage to Solomon that she was off the menu?
He had no way of knowing that she had never been on it.
“Let’s take him for a short talk in private,” Constance murmured.
It was important for the business that she be seen here, but she did not want to stay late.
She had thought she would miss this place, the company, the friendships, her lovely, private rooms upstairs, but she didn’t.
Or, at least, not nearly as much as she’d imagined.
The new house, full of Solomon, had become home very quickly.
As Constance and Solomon approached, Hildie strolled off toward the bishop who was her regular.
“So how would I make a donation to this establishment?” Cordell asked as they led him from the room and across the hall to the currently empty small salon.
Solomon closed the door. “In any form you wish. A few coins, a bank draft, banknotes—all are welcome.”
“And I can do this without being—er…a member of your club?”
“Of course.”
“And do you report on how my money is used?”
“Indeed we will. As a formal charity, it has only just begun, but we now have a board with a duty to oversee accounts and so on. Basically, donations are kept separate from our other sources of income, and are spent on education, apprenticeships, suitable clothing and equipment, and rents to give girls a start in decent lodgings if they need them.”
“And your own salary, Mrs. Grey?”
“Oh, no,” Constance replied. “My income is quite separate. You need not rush into anything, you know. We shan’t keep you here until you pay up.”
He blushed. “I never suspected such a thing. But this is all new to me. I have never come across quite such an establishment before.”
“I don’t believe there is another,” Constance said brazenly. “We are unique. Shall we sit and be comfortable? Have you learned what you wanted to this evening?”
“Some, certainly, in unexpected areas.”
“Mr. St. John was not a member here,” Constance said. “He never visited in any capacity.”
“I never truly thought he did,” Cordell said. “He was an innocent, in many ways. Unworldly. To be honest, I doubt he even knew what this house was, or if he had heard of its existence. Which makes it even odder, for me, that he was found on your doorstep.”
Solomon sat down beside Constance. “I imagine you are acquainted with many people around Grosvenor Square. Have you ever heard of any ill feeling toward the inhabitants of this establishment?”
Cordell looked slightly surprised, but thought about it before shaking his head.
“No, I don’t think so. A few men regard it as something of an amusing joke, but no one ever admits to seeing it from the inside.
” His lips twitched. “Though some clearly do.” He glanced at Constance and then back to Solomon.
“To be frank,” he said, “I did want to speak to you about poor St. John’s murder.
It troubles his family deeply, and I know you are curious on your own account to know what happened.
I daresay you don’t like this household living under police suspicion either. ”
With difficulty, Constance kept her face as politely expressionless as possible. “The situation is not good for anyone. Least of all for the two dead men.”
“Exactly. Which leads me to my other reason for coming. You intrigued me, Mr. Grey, when you told me of your inquiry business. I would like to employ your firm to discover the truth about the murder of Terrence St. John.”
*
“Why do you think he did that?” Constance asked suddenly. She and Solomon were lying in bed together, wrapped around each other in those peaceful moments before sleep overwhelmed them. Or, at least, it should have done. For some reason, she felt wide awake.
Solomon’s eyes didn’t open. “What? Employed us?”
“Yes.”
“Probably because he thinks he can control what comes out of our investigation.”
Constance propped herself up on one elbow. “He thinks he’s bought us?”
Solomon pulled her down again and kissed her forehead and mouth. “He hasn’t signed the contract yet. I’ll make sure he understands the limits of our loyalty to our clients.”
“It isn’t just that… Whom is he afraid for? It must be his betrothed, Bella.”
“Not necessarily. Families tend to rise and fall together. The ruin of one affects them all. And he could just want their innocence proved beyond doubt.”
“Do you think he would jilt Bella if we couldn’t prove that?”
“Such disloyalty would not look good for him either—unless we find proof that she or her mother or brother committed murder, in which case, the world might well be more understanding. His father appears to be a stickler for convention, but young Cordell is reaching for his own independence.”
“You like him?” Constance asked.
“I might. If he didn’t kill St. John.”
“Why would he?”
“I can’t think of a reason. Unless St. John was aware of some secret that made Cordell an ineligible son-in-law.”
“Or St. John had a secret that made him an ineligible father-in-law.” Constance wriggled. “What was he doing on our doorstep? If they weren’t brought there deliberately, why were they together? What were they doing?”
“Waiting for a cup of tea from your Mrs. Cate or Bibby,” Solomon said.
“The lights were out in the kitchen by midnight,” Constance objected. “They must have known there would be no tea that night. But then, Nevvy must have used the last of his strength to get there. Perhaps he just couldn’t leave.”
“And St. John was dying too, so they just died in company? Why was St. John dying? Where did the poison come from?”
Several memories flashed into Constance’s mind, scenes from her childhood right through to this afternoon. Ragged, homeless men huddled in doorways, drinking with friends, passing round a bottle. Arguing over a bottle. Fighting with a bottle.
“Drinking,” she said. “I’ll bet you all you have. Two men on a doorstep, both of amiable disposition though of entirely different worlds. Lonely men for some reason. They were drinking.”
This time it was Solomon who loomed up on his elbow.
“Drinking from a bottle laced with opium! Of course they were. And Nevvy was so riddled with tuberculosis that I’ll bet they never looked inside his stomach.
He could have been collecting opium from the hospital for months, saving it up for one last drink to end his suffering for good. ”
It made horrible, tragic sense. Apart from a couple of important points. “But why would he give it to St. John? Why would St. John drink it? Unless he was completely wheelbarrowed, he would have noticed it tasted disgusting. He’d never have drunk enough to kill himself.”
“He was worried,” Solomon mused. “He could easily have got vilely drunk after he sent his valet away, and then, in the way of drunks, decided to go out again.”
“To my back garden,” Constance said discontentedly. “Perhaps it made sense when he was so well oiled.”
“And there is the fact that the police searched your garden as well as the bodies, and found no discarded bottles. Still, I think we might have something to investigate tomorrow.”
Constance considered that. “I’ll bet there are places in the garden they never thought of looking. We need to speak to Jeremy in the morning.”
“Very early in the morning,” Solomon said sleepily, “if we’re to meet Cordell at the office…”